Quarry's Ex

by Max Allan Collins

  In addition they were drinking cans of beer-Miller, champagne of beers, nothing too good for my hosts-and it didn’t take me long to realize they were holding me for somebody. I had a hunch I knew who that somebody was, but the way they had dug in-cards, smokes, beers, ignoring me-made me figure they weren’t expecting my real host for a while yet.

  So there I sat with a stiletto strapped to my thigh and my arms pinned to me. I could almost reach my waistband with either hand, but I was in full view, and that knife was well below where I could reach.

  “Guys,” I said.

  “Shut-up,” Skull said.

  “I gotta piss.”

  “Go ahead and piss.”

  “Just piss myself you mean.”

  Juke said, “Don’t bother us! We’re busy!…Two kings.”

  Skull said, “Three tens.”

  “Aw, fuck you, Skull! Nobody’s that fuckin’ lucky.”

  Skull took no offense, shuffling what looked to me like greasy cards. “I am that fucking lucky. You are looking at the lucky fucker who is that fucking lucky.”

  I said, “I piss myself, fellas, it’s gonna smell in here. Worse than you two already do.”

  That at least got their attention.

  Both ugly faces turned my way. I had a better view of Juke than Skull, not that that was a privilege. But I did sort of enjoy how his face turned bright red under the wispy carrot-color beard and the way his little eyes popped in their pouches.

  Then they turned back to their game, not mad enough to come over and cuff me or anything.

  Absently, Skull said to me, “Shut the fuck up, asshole.” Then to Juke: “Wanna cut?”

  “Bet your ass I wanna cut,” Juke said. “These all the cards we got?”

  “These are all the cards we got. Hell, man, they’re your cards!”

  “My cards maybe. But not my fuckin’ morning.”

  I said, “You think the guy you’re holding me for wants to have to talk to somebody who smells like ten kinds of piss? Let me use the fucking can already.”

  Skull sighed grandly and threw the cards on the table. “Jesus! You are more fucking trouble than you are worth.” He swiveled in the booth and glared at me. “You know the cans in here aren’t working. Water’s shut off. You were here the other day. You see a honeywagon out there? Not fuckin’ hardly. Hold your goddamn water…Aces and fours.”

  “Fuck you, Skull! Shit! Jesus.”

  Skull was laughing and hauling in pills.

  “Then walk me outside,” I said. “Look, you want me to piss myself? I’ll piss myself. That’ll get you in solid with your boss.”

  Juke said, “He’s gettin’ on my fuckin’ nerves, man.”

  “You wanna walk him out for a piss,” Skull said reasonably, “walk him out for a piss. But he’s all yours. You gotta unwrap the Christmas present, and wrap it the fuck back up. Whole enchilada.”

  “No biggie,” Juke said, and got up and came over quickly, saying back to his partner, “Anyway, I gotta piss, too. You know what they say about beer. You can’t buy it, y’can only rent the sumbitch.”

  So Juke leaned over me, smelling like beer and weed and body odor, picking at the edge of where the duct tape had left off, like it was a scab. He found the place, and got the tape going and unwrapped me. Gun in one hand, he yanked me up off the chair by an arm and hauled me back through the kitchen and into the warmth of the outdoors.

  Day now.

  Sunny sky.

  Warm, dry.

  Behind the diner, scrubby desert stretched endlessly with the occasional cactus popping up like a hitchhiker thumb.

  We stood side by side and he said, “First me,” and-his back to the diner-pissed a yellow stream with admirable arching trajectory. He was on my left, the.38 in his right hand, and was aiming his dick with his left. Ambidextrous pisser, Juke was.

  “Now you,” he said.

  And I was afraid he was going to stand there next to me, and make it hard if not impossible for me to get at the weapon.

  But like most men, he felt uncomfortable watching another man relieve himself, and took several respectful steps back. Juke was just that kind of guy. I could hear him zipping up back there and I unzipped and reached my hand deep through my fly and what I brought back was not my penis.

  The click of the retracted blade coming out to smile in the sun was a very small sound in a very large desert, but it might have been a cannon shot. Even Juke heard it, but he did not have time to raise the gun-in-hand before I swung around and jammed the knife point deep into his throat, right under the adam’s apple.

  He froze there, with a deer-in-the-headlights expression, if that deer were a dunce, anyway, and I moved behind him, the handle of the knife still tight in my fist, and I brought that blade around like I was carving a lid in a jack o’ lantern, getting myself behind him, so that when I finally released the blade from his throat, the arterial spray wouldn’t get on me. Instead, it cut a wide glittery scarlet stream in the sunlight, little diamonds winking off it, making the brief life of that spray a thing of beauty.

  Not Juke’s fuckin’ morning.

  I didn’t fuck around with Skull.

  With the revolver in hand, I moved quickly through the kitchen and into the diner, the pathway putting me behind the counter like I was about to deliver an order. Skull glanced up from shuffling, with eyes that could not have been dimmer if the bullet had already crashed through his skull.

  Well, maybe those eyes were a little dimmer, in the aftermath of the gun’s crack, the bullet thudding into the wood wall, and he slammed his head sideways onto the tabletop, looking like a schoolboy napping at his desk, spilling blood onto the pills and the cards. Dying, he shit himself.

  He would.

  I decided to leave him there. I didn’t see any percentage in moving Juke, either. Nobody was around, and the blood would still be seeping for a while. Not a long while, but a while. We were far enough out of town that my gunshot was about as notable as a coyote howl.

  All I did by way of clean-up, or for that matter preparation for my upcoming guest, was go out where I’d dropped the stiletto near Juke and wipe its blade off on his bandana. Some spatter on my hand, from holding the knife, I wiped off on his t-shirt. Then I got my nine millimeter from the car, if only to know where it was, with no intention of shifting from the.38 to my more familiar weapon.

  The.38 was nice. Might be worth keeping as a souvenir, or maybe I would take Skull’s, since Juke’s had been used in a killing.

  So I just sat in the booth to the right of the door-Skull was in the booth to its left, not at all talkative-and waited, doing my best to ignore the shit stench. I did not partake of the beers that the bikers had brought along-a cooler was in back of the counter-because the last thing I wanted was to really have to piss.

  ***

  A little before six-thirty, a key worked in the locked front door.

  Then James Kaufmann entered, and frowned at the empty chair. His nose twitched at the strong foul odor. It sent his gaze toward Skull, and the producer seemed about to duck out when I rose and got into his view and displayed the.38.

  “Have a seat, Bubba,” I said.

  “What the hell happened here, Jack?” he asked. “I was just coming out to-”

  “We’re going to skip the bullshit.”

  With the snubby, I indicated the chair in the middle of an otherwise empty floor, where the abandoned strapstrands of duct tape lay near the chair legs like the Invisible Man had undressed himself and gone for a stroll.

  Slowly the producer moved to the chair. I shut the door for him. He sat. He was in a light-blue polo shirt, darker blue slacks, and Italian loafers with no socks. He wore the puka necklace again and the pink-tinted aviators.

  I sat on one of the diner stools, facing him. I told him to turn the chair so I could look at him, and added, “Take the fucking sunglasses off. I want to see your eyes.”

  They were light blue, attractive but badly spider-webbed red.


  “Where…” he began. “Where’s the other one?”

  “Juke? Out back. With his throat cut.”

  Here’s the funny part. Whether funny ha ha or funny ironic, I will leave to you and your individual tastes. He pissed himself.

  And he started crying. Tears ran down his pockmarked cheeks. I figured he was probably a sociopath or at least a very, very selfish prick, and was fairly sure this was the only kind of instance that might summon real tears from him.

  “I’m gonna make this quick,” I said, “because it stinks in here. Between you pissing yourself, and Skull over there shitting himself…well, I don’t figure the health inspector’s going to approve this place without some major effort.”

  He swallowed. He wasn’t crying anymore, but he snuffled snot. “Who…who sent you?”

  “That’s the question you wanted to ask me, isn’t it, Jimbo? Well, you don’t get it answered. You’re afraid maybe Licata got wind of your scheme, and sent me, right? Maybe. Maybe not. You’ll never know.”

  “Why…why not tell me?”

  “Why give you the satisfaction?” I shook my head. “He told you, didn’t he? Stockwell told you about me. Not in detail, just that somebody was trying to kill him and I was here to help. Right?”

  Swallowed. Snuffled. Nodded.

  “When-last night?”

  Swallowed. Snuffled. Nodded.

  I grunted a laugh. “Right after I told the bastard that I suspected you. I should leave here right now and let you hire somebody new and just kill the motherfucker. He could use a lesson in reality.”

  “Artie…Artie didn’t believe I could do such a thing.”

  “Because you went to school together. Because you were best friends, all these years. Best man at his wedding.”

  More nodding. No more tears. “We were tight…we were like brothers. I was closer to him than…than his goddamn wife ever was. He never thought…never thought I could do that to him.”

  “Most poor boobs never think the person they love would ever cheat on them,” I said. “Artie Baby just joined the biggest fucking club in the world.”

  “…Are you going to tell him?”

  I nodded over at Skull. “You should be more concerned about whether I’m going to kill your sorry ass.”

  Now he looked like more tears might come. “Why… why did you do that? Why would you kill them?”

  “They grabbed me at gunpoint and tied me to a chair. I would have killed them for just one of those. And you were the one who told them to do it.”

  This time he swallowed very slow and hard. Then he held his head up high. Proud. “So just kill me. You might as well kill me. I’m finished anyway.”

  “I’m not sure you are. Weasels like you always find a way. Some new sucker to befriend and fool. You’ve got a pretty smooth line. When I ruled out Licata, and played process of elimination, I got to thinking about who might have been able to provide a contract killer with a key to Stockwell’s hotel room…and you came to mind. You’re the producer, who booked all the rooms and pays for them. Just a little clue, but suggestive.”

  Kaufmann said nothing.

  “But here’s what I don’t get. The completion bond-that’s a risky proposition. It’s possible that before an insurance company paid off, another director would be brought in to finish the picture.”

  He shrugged. “Possible. Not likely.”

  “You used to be in insurance, Jimbo. What’s the rest of the scam? What else have you set up?”

  His smile was small but oddly proud. “We’re business partners, Artie and me. He has a quarter million-dollar policy on my life, I have a quarter-million policy on his.”

  “Double indemnity for accidental death?”

  He nodded. His hands were in his lap. I don’t need no stinking duct tape.

  “So…what? You’re in charge of the money, and you’ve embezzled? The director dies and the completion bond pays the bills. But wouldn’t what you took show up anyway?”

  “Give me a little credit. I’m the accountant, too, Mr. Reynolds.”

  “Please. We’re past that, Jimbo. Make it Jack. Hell, make it Jacko.”

  “I only…only took what I had coming to me.”

  “Explain.”

  He shrugged. “Both Art and me, we took a very small part of our salaries up front. The rest is back-end. Paid only out of profits. But with a sequel to a hit picture, that should be lucrative. Only…we would run out of production money first, because of…you know.”

  “Because of what you stole. How much back-end money was coming to you, Jimbo?”

  “Two hundred thousand.”

  “You were going to have your best friend killed, for two hundred thousand?”

  He shook his head. “No. There’s the other policy.”

  “That’s right! Half a million. Well, that’s different. Snuffing your best friend for seven-hundred thou. Who wouldn’t do that?”

  He lowered his head. His eyes looked sleepy now. Defeated. “…Are you going to kill me?”

  “Where did the money go, Jimbo?”

  He snuffled. Then he tapped his nose.

  And it finally made sense: drug addicts will sell anybody out for their needs. Mom, Dad, Sis. Best friends? In a heartbeat. An accelerated heartbeat.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” I said with a sigh, sliding off the stool, revolver in hand. “You have a busy afternoon ahead of you. You are going to go buy yourself a shovel, and some cleaning products, and you are going to clean up my mess. Which is to say, your mess.”

  “I don’t…I…”

  “A shovel, some Lysol, some Brillo pads and maybe some rubber gloves. Pretty much all you’ll need. Drive these dead assholes into the desert, dig a nice deep hole- you’ll need six feet, minimum, or the predators will make a buffet out of ’em, but still leaving enough behind to make it risky. These boys worked for you on your movie, and if even table scraps of them turn up, questions will be asked.”

  He was astounded. Horrified. He almost had the nerve to get up out of the chair. “We’re going to bury the bodies?”

  “No!” I had a good laugh at the thought of that. “No, you’re going to bury the bodies. And clean up the blood and the shit. The blood out back, on the ground-buckets of soapy water maybe? To dilute it down to nothing?”

  “You’re…not to going to kill me?”

  “Not unless your friend Art wants me to. I’m going to tell him you embezzled…two hundred K? Better come clean if it’s more.”

  “No. That’s all.”

  “Fine. I’m going to tell him you weren’t responsible for the hit team being sent in. That somebody you owed money did that, and that I have killed that somebody’s ass. He won’t want to know any more than that. That will satisfy him.”

  Kaufmann almost smiled-he could hardly believe his good luck, running into a decent guy like me.

  I opened the door for him. He zombie-walked out.

  “You really gonna leave that open?” I asked, and he gave me a dazed look.

  “What’s the term you movie people use?” I said. “It’s a hot set. We don’t need anybody blundering in and fucking with it, do we?”

  He got my drift, and locked the diner door.

  Couldn’t have any weary traveler stopping by thinking GAS & EATS was open for business, and stumble upon Skull in his booth, where the blood pooled on the playing cards was getting all black and crusty and nasty.

  Kaufmann walked to his rental Lincoln, and I headed over to my lowly Nova. No wonder the production’s money was running through his fingers-a Lincoln!

  But before he got in his car, he found the guts to turn and ask me something.

  Called out, “Why…why would do this for me?”

  “Not for you. For my client. For the director of this picture. Somebody he loved fucked him over. I been there. Now go buy yourself a shovel.”

  TWELVE

  By the time I got back to the Spur, it was late morning. I found Arthur Stockwell in his h
otel room, spending his unexpected day off sitting at that table where I first saw him, again going over storyboards, also making notes off his script, which was in a hardshell notebook.

  His wife was down at the pool, having a swim, he said, so the timing was good for a private talk.

  Again he wore a t-shirt-this one black with a Good, the Bad and the Ugly image on it-and jeans. He looked like he’d had more sleep than had been his recent habit, and less puffy, the leading man appearance back, his general aura one of feeling better. But I would take care of that.

  I sat at the table and told him the bullshit story as I’d outlined it to Kaufmann-his old friend had embezzled, someone bad who Jimbo owed money hired the hit team, and I took care of that someone. Pretty much that vague.

  “So I’m finished here,” I said matter of factly. “Unless you’re mad enough at your old buddy to have me do something about him.”

  Stockwell had been sitting there, hangdog, staring into nothing but disappointment and near despair, but my suggestion brought his face up sharply. “No! No. For Christ’s sake, no. I couldn’t live with that.”

  “I could.”

  “I couldn’t.” He shook his head; his eyes were welling. “Jim’s my best friend. Or was my friend. I…I don’t know now. It’s not just childhood days together…or him standing up with me and Joni. It’s also…Jack, I’d have never made it in the independent movie business without his help…his support. He must have some terrible problem to sink so low.”

  “Sure. He snorts coke.”

  “Yes, but why does he snort coke? What demons drove him to it? What could make him betray his best friend?”

  I would leave it to him to chase the cause and effect of that down whatever touchy-feely rabbit holes he chose.

  We spoke briefly about how my payment would be made, and then I asked him, “Surely you’re going to fire his ass.”

  But the director shook his head. “No. I’m going to sit down with him. I’m going to give him a chance to explain this thing. And then I’m going to let him know that no matter what he’s done, I am still his friend.”